


Charms, Crimes, and Chasing (Down Your Lover At Wandpoint)

by creativitys_nightmare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativitys_nightmare/pseuds/creativitys_nightmare
Summary: Draco is a PI. Astoria is a criminal. Potter is a git.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Past Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter - Relationship
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -this is a WIP and I fully intend that no one ever reads this  
> -no beta, so pls be gentle  
> -I'll be editing as I go, so it may be a different read each time lmao  
> -while I love these characters, I would never want to associate with J. K. Rowling herself and thereby condone transphobia of any kind. The separation of art and artist is a controversial topic, but I have nothing but love for both this fictional world and our own, in which all kinds of beautiful people exist, and whose validity should never be questioned

There's a headache coming on, Draco knows it. Two unsolved cases stare at him as he leans his head into his hands, decidedly ignoring the name 'Auror Potter' on the top file. Why Susan gives him assignments in conjunction with that git anymore, he'll never understand. 

"It's half five, love," his clock tells him in what he assumes it thinks to be a comforting tone, "You're due for a break any time now." 

He'll have to work into the night, he thinks. There goes his evening of strongly brewed coffee and the latest TV programme slowly lulling his mind into a comfortable state of oblivion. 

Clearing his throat to jar himself out of his trance, he straightens out, back and shoulder muscles protesting violently as he pulls open the closest file to witness whatever horrid crime there was to see this evening. 

It's not that he doesn't love his job—he does, and he's worked harder than anyone to come this far. Principal Investigator of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wasn't where he saw his career going, but if he's honest with himself, it's a better gig than he ever thought he could achieve, what with all the backlash and bias he's endured in the—aftermath. 

However, working for the Ministry did have its drawbacks, one being a storey down, wearing ugly trainers to work and having ridiculous hair that used to make Draco melt like butter. Now, it only causes a slight urge to hex the person nearest. Working in close proximity to the Aurors had never been a problem before, but the past seven months (the longest Draco has ever taken to recover from even the nastiest of breakups) have been torture. 

He knows there are words on a page in front of him but he can't force his mind to translate them into logical strings of information. Instead, he concentrates on staining his ring finger with the ink from his swan-feather quill, watching the dark pigment settle into the lines of the pad of his fingertip.

A sharp knock causes him to drop his quill into his lap, leaving a small stain on his trousers. "— _shite_ , come— _Jesus_ — come in!" 

Susan Bones, newly appointed Head of the DMLE, pokes her head through his door. "Is this a bad time?" 

Draco notices another red file in her hand and sighs. "Another one? I'm still working on last week's from Bath, and god knows I've not gotten anything done about Johnson's from this afternoon." Not mentioning, of course, the fact that he's been avoiding the inevitable meeting with Potter he'd have to schedule to take down all the noted details of the event from the Head Auror on the case. 

"This one's important, Malfoy. The antiques dealer? Sheppard—"

"—is a pompous bastard—"

"—listen, Sheppard picked up on their scent in Wales, so you'll have to kip over to Level 5 in a bit. This takes prominence, I want this case wrapped up before you do anything else." She tossed the file onto his desk. "That's all the information we have on her."

"Her?"

"Oh, you're positively medieval, Malfoy. A criminal mastermind has to be a man?"

Before Draco could comment something crass, she shows him her 'end of discussion' smile and turns on a dangerously high heel, leaving him with her lingering scent of roses and a new file that enthuses him even less than the others, if that was possible. 

He has only the time to shake his head at the woman with begrudged affection before a beautiful tawny owl flies in and perches imperiously on his lamp, a folded sheet of blue stationary tied carefully to an outstretched leg. Hermione, then. 

Theirs is an unfathomable friendship. Granger was the last he'd ever consider as a confidante, to be sure, but she was a surprisingly significant factor in his return to normality after the horribly messy breakup that plunged Draco into six long months of self-doubt and depression. Being some kind of a bridge between him and Potter, knowing the strengths and weaknesses of both, made her well-equipped to deal with the heartbroken and ragingly bitter. Her genuine concern for his well being, as well as an enigmatic fondness for him that simply did not make sense, considering that she'd once decked him in the face, all drew him to her. An astounding political activist, humanitarian, and Shacklebolt's private advisor, she'd done well for herself. Within the past month she'd managed to convince Draco to attend with her those high society functions that he used to love so much, telling him that she needed a partner, and he would humor her, all the while acutely aware that it was only part of a master plan to reintroduce him to the civilised world. The worst part is that it's working—the seventh month of Hermione's careful doting is the most normal he's felt in a long time.

"I do have a perch in here, you self-righteous old bird," he says, stroking her head carefully. She just stares at him with amber eyes and shakes her leg again. Untying the ribbon, he asks, "Have you seen Tycho around?" A nip on his finger reminds him he's talking to an owl. 

Sarabi stays on his lamp as he reads Hermione's message through once, then twice. Another event, a celebration of some newly elected buffoon in scarlet that Draco couldn't give a rat's ass about. But the endearment at the close reminds him that it's Hermione, and he's finding it inconveniently and increasingly more difficult to refuse her anything. He scrawls an impertinent reply in his biggest, most ostentatious script that will surely get him a smile and a whack with her clutch when he next sees her, and sends it off with the owl. 

The impending headache has taken center stage as he guiltily tidies the paperwork on his desk, the newest crimson file practically leaping off his desk as if begging him to stay and work. Draco takes his coat, his case, and finally, resentfully, sweeps Susan's file under his arm to take to his flat, and wonders just how important an antiques dealer could be.

-

Draco examines himself in Granger's vanity as she bustles around in search of a suitable wrap, touching the hair at the base of his neck. Harry had liked it long, but that was an afterthought, and he much prefers it trimmed short at the base and sides, slicked back at the top. As much as he hates to admit it, it was at Hermione's gentle suggestion that he cut off the length that made him so resemble his father.

"It suits you," Hermione says, smiling in the mirror from behind him. "Not to worry." 

She stands in a beautifully lacy sheath, hair pinned back and away from her face. Draco is again left to wonder how she ever chose to settle for the Weasel, even if he and Ron are cordial acquaintances by this point. He tells her as much and earns yet another jab in the side. 

"Now remind me, which painted peacock's mediocrity are we toasting tonight?"

He is fixed with a stern look. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't need someone to go with," she says reproachfully. "People talk if you show up alone, and Ron hates the schmoozing dreadfully."

"That's why you have me, dear. I _desperately_ love schmoozing. Excellent word choice, by the way."

____

"I know you pretend to hate functions like this but it's a good opportunity for you to stretch your wings a bit. I hate to be so blunt with you, but you are quite rusty. Besides—" she closes in to lean her head on his shoulder and winds their arms together, "—you might even find someone new." 

____

"Don't, Granger, please—" Draco tilts his face away, but keeps his arm in her grasp, and this is not lost on her. He was never one for excessive casual touching.

____

"Only teasing." She takes his hand. "I'm useless at keeping neat in the Floo. Apparate us, would you please?" 

____

"If you'll only tell me where, my dear."

____


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank Merlin for open bars_ , Draco thinks sullenly, two fingers of firewhiskey down and very probably annoying the barman. It was against his superior judgement to come anyways; Hermione left him a good hour ago to outshine Kingsley in every interaction they had with the rich bastards who wanted yet another raise or a spot on the Wizengamot. He'd always told her that she could easily be the next Minister, but she refused to run against Shacklebolt and reiterated the sentiment she made so long ago to an impertinent party that she "hoped to do some good in the world.” She's probably convincing another poor fool to join her prison reform party at this very moment.

Draco knows he's too old to get pissed at the beginning of the night—he'll be thirty-one in a week, for god’s sake. So he downs enough whiskey to achieve alcohol-induced glasses, seeing the world in a slightly more forgiving light, knowing he’ll need them to survive this horrible evening and its participants.

What any amount of intoxicant will not prepare him for, however, is the familiar voice of one Harry James Potter saying, "Red currant rum, Lazarus."

Staying as still as he can in a vain attempt to not be noticed (he is conveniently at the other end of the counter, thank fuck), he hears the bartender laugh in good-natured surprise and clasp hands with the Savior across the bar top. "Auror Potter! Good to see you, mate."

Draco's neck begins to prickle at the sound of Potter's dress shoes approaching him from behind. He hastily takes a drink, wondering whether it's too late to _Avada Kedavra_ himself to avoid the dreaded small talk that one is obligated to do in fashionable society, even with one's ex. Especially with one's ex.

"Evening, Draco," and doesn't that just let in a flood of memories that he'd rather stifle into nonexistence? Painfully endeavoring to seem nonchalant, he barely tips his chin at the greeting and the casual use of his given name.

"Potter." It isn't as steady as he wants it to be, but it suffices. He tries to ignore the fact that this is the second conversation they'd attempted in the seven months they'd been apart, thereby being... momentous, in some capacity. The first one had involved more stuttering than Draco had been prepared for and an eventual flight by both parties. _We are adults, we are ADULTS_ is the refrain currently running through his mind, and he is starting to regret the whiskey.

"How have you been?" inquires Harry politely, burning holes into Draco's skin with his eyes—Draco can feel them carve a familiar path down the line of his cheekbone, skipping up his throat and over his mouth to settle on his downcast eyelashes. He doesn't want to see those eyes, doesn't look up.

"I've been quite well," and they both know it’s a lie, but what can he do about it? _Small talk_ , his brain helpfully provides. "I don't often see you at events like this one," he comments in a pleasantly bland tone that he's rather proud of when he hears it.

Potter runs a hand through his hair, and that small movement that was once so endearing to Draco now irritated him, for a reason he'd rather leave a mystery. "Susan asked me to come," he shrugs. "And I know Branstone."

"I assume this person is the reason for the festivities."

"You don't know Eleanor?" Something in Harry's tone makes Draco's jaw tighten. "Why are you here, then?"

"I came with Granger," Draco says, wary, and continues in a moment of weakness, "Would you rather I hadn't?" Immediately he wants to hex himself. He isn't looking for confrontation.

Harry sighs, a gust of breath that tells Draco they're really about to do this. "I wish you wouldn't—"

"Granger!" Draco calls loudly as he sees a flurry of brown hair draw near. When she turns, he gives her a blinding smile, which instantly alerts her to his distress. He knows he's being a bit of an ass, but he has either too much or too little liquor in his bloodstream to have this conversation, especially since he didn't even know Potter was coming tonight and had no time to prepare himself.

Harry is disgruntled at the interruption but hides it well under an enthusiastic smile for Hermione as she approaches them. "Hi."

"Hello, Harry. Lovely surprise to see you here." Her eyes dart quickly from one man to the other, saying casually, "I see you've found my date for the evening."

"Yes, we were just talking about you," Draco says with bravado. Offering his arm to her, he adds, "Only the best things, of course," as she pecks him on the cheek. It gives him a little satisfaction to see Harry's thinly veiled surprise at their intimacy.

"Will one of you boys get me a stiff drink? I've just been with most horrid man for nearly a half hour, I couldn't get a word in edgewise. Kept going on about harsher punishment for parole violators and telling me Azkaban was too humane for criminals nowadays, I nearly punched him in the face—"

"My dear Granger, will you take Potter to go commend Branstone for me? He could convey sincere congratulations much more effectively than I could, I'm afraid." Staring resolutely at his whiskey stones, Draco feels Hermione's disapproving gaze before she takes pity on him, tugging on Harry's arm and gesturing away.

"Have a good night, Draco." Green eyes meet grey for half a second, and Harry lets himself be steered away.

The second Draco's in the clear he lifts his now-empty tumbler towards Lazarus.

"Are you sure, mate? You don't look so well."

He considers Apparating to his flat right then and there, but he'd promised Hermione three hours and he had another bloody hour before he could justifiably leave. If only he wasn't so damn fond of that woman. "Please," he tells the bartender, who shrugs and starts him another round.

Leant back against the counter, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand in his suit jacket and the other occupied with the whiskey, he settles in.

-

He wouldn’t call himself full on wankered, but it's a close thing, with fifteen minutes left to go. He suspects he'll be cut off any second now, so he relishes in the comforting burn of the last couple swallows in his glass. Raucous laughter floats above the happily idle chatter of the rest of the room; in the center of it all, Potter, that prick. He seems to draw the attention of the adoring masses no matter where he goes, and tonight is no exception.

Draco has been to enough high-society functions to know the lay of the land. Mingle, then starters. Toasts, speeches, entrées. Appreciate whatever dull, underpaid entertainment is performing, then pudding. Once the peacocks are fed, washed, and dried, then comes the horrible walking-about and preening. And Potter, it seems, is in the mood to preen tonight.

Minister Shacklebolt, Hermione, and who he assumes is the celebrant for tonight ( _Eleanor? Elphaba? _His pulse pounds relentlessly in his temples)__ form a pathetic half-circle in the glow of the Saviour, laughing and drinking and just generally being unbearable _ _.__

"Are you attempting to single-handedly run the place dry?"

Barely lowering the glass from his mouth, Draco turns his head lazily to the sound of the voice he doesn’t know. Its owner is a small woman, clad in a navy satin dress that plunges down her back. The swath of dark fabric sweeps low enough to reveal two small dips at the base of her spine. There’s a tug in his stomach, and he’s not sure it’s the whiskey.

He tries to be engaging. "Well…no." _Oh, charming, Malfoy_.

"Are you pissed?"

"Why the questions, if you'll excuse my asking?"

"I was going to buy you a drink, but as you've been standing in the exact same position for the past hour, I'm sure you've had quite enough."

This statement warrants a full quarter turn, and Draco looks at her, really looks this time. She's leaning over the bar, elbows on the counter, hands clasped. Pearl pins gleam like scattered stars against her dark hair, piled up in loose and shining curls. Confidence—no, a pedigree—he recognizes it in the line of her back and the arch of her brows. That minuscule clench running down through her jaw; the one he himself learned as soon as he could speak. "Been watching me?" he asks.

The tension ripples away as she smiles, and a small dimple appears on her right cheek. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Calculating my chances of success. Wondering how I should go about it. Easier if you watch the person for a bit."

Her frankness is a little disconcerting, and Draco can’t decide how to steer this conversation. Hermione was right, he _is _rusty. Damn. "And what did you decide?"__

"That honesty was probably my best shot." The slight fog that has been settling nicely over Draco's senses begins to lift at her response.

"Interesting, but shouldn't that always be the statistically correct answer, in the average person's life on the pull?"

"Probably, but—"

"—but you're not the average person," he finishes, cutting her off. "Predictable. A perfect set-up, you're welcome, but what a line. I'm disappointed in you, frankly." The alcohol is making him an arsehole and he's painfully aware of it.

"I'm… sorry," he mutters, trying to backtrack. Tips his empty glass in her direction. "I'm shitfaced and it's been a long day."

The woman isn't put off, which he finds only slightly more interesting than the conversation they were having. "I can tell."

"I interrupted you."

"I was only saying that I couldn't really know what would have the highest success rate. You seem to be a very particular man."

"I don't know about that." Freckles dust the tops of her shoulders, ears and the highest points of her cheekbones, almost too light to make out against her skin. An inexplicable urge to taste them crawls into his stomach and the intensity of it scares him; he shudders imperceptibly.

“I’ve seen you around before, haven’t I?” she muses.

There’s no ill-will in her voice, but it irks him. A sore spot, one that Draco may never heal from. “Been reading the red tops?” He can’t keep the bitterness out of his tone, sets down his empty glass on the counter. “The Prophet hasn’t been kind to me lately,” he mutters, “or ever, I suppose.”

The woman’s face flickers for the first time from her pleasant, flirtatious facade; he’s not sure if it’s just the alcohol, or perhaps his rudeness has finally offended her—he’s surprised she’s lasted this long. But before he can identify it, her curious smile returns, and he wonders if he imagined it after all. “I could be mistaken,” she says graciously. She bows her head, and a stray lock escapes from behind her ear. “I’d better be going. My strategy for chatting you up obviously failed me miserably tonight, and I—”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Draco splutters, “it’s working, I’m just an arse. I’m just so,” a deep breath and a sigh, “woefully out of practice.” _And drunk. And miserable _.__

“You did fine,” she says, touching his hand that rests lightly on the bar counter. It burns. When she turns to go, he feels a tiny but impossibly infinite hole open up in his chest. She looks back at him from over her shoulder. “Maybe another time. Enjoy the rest of your night, Malfoy.”

Draco watches helplessly as she walks away, weaving through tables and Ministry officials until he loses sight of her. Surely it’s been fifteen bloody minutes and he can leave, he thinks, and stretches, irritable. He can’t remember a time he’d stuttered through a conversation so clumsily—and she’d approached him! The extent to which he’d lost his pureblood charm, charisma, and eloquence was not a welcome revelation to him. Then again, maybe he’d have to do a serious self-reassessment.

Nodding brusquely to the barman, he buttons his suit jacket and sweeps across the room to Hermione, kisses her on the cheek, and Apparates on the spot. He’ll get called a diva tomorrow at work, but he can’t be bothered: if he has to look at Potter one more time he’ll do something he regrets.

His flat appears in a swirl of light and he almost vomits. Tycho hoots at his sudden appearance, flapping his great russet wings in surprise. “Shut up, you,” Draco grunts. He snags a Hangover potion from the kitchen on his way upstairs, and slams his bedroom door for good measure. He forgets the woman’s face, and he never asked her name, but he falls asleep within the hour and dreams of dark hair and stars.


	3. Chapter 3

ONE WEEK EARLIER:

Astoria Greengrass has just about had it. She steps out of the shower, shutting off the water with unnecessary force.

“Blaise _fucking_ Zabini!” she shouts. The sounds of Blaise rummaging through her bedside dresser stop momentarily, but resume after only the briefest of pauses. Hair still dripping, she hastily wraps a towel around herself and marches out into her bedroom. “I told you, if you went through my things one more time, I would hex your balls off. You’re lucky I don't bring my wand into the bath with me.” Thank Merlin she had thought to clear out her desk before he came over last night.

He smiles mischievously, waggling an empty condom wrapper. “Just looking for a fresh one, baby. Up for another round?”

“Unlike you, I have obligations and an actual job,” she snarls, casting a wandless locking charm on all drawers in sight as she returns to the washroom. The locks click loudly and simultaneously, and Blaise’s grin widens, the bastard.

It had started innocently enough: Astoria loved Ogden’s Old, and when Blaise came up to her a couple months ago at the Three Broomsticks after her hearty nightcap, she couldn’t help herself. She remembered him from Hogwarts, a childhood crush never realized. Of course, he was already a fourth year when she had started—she hadn’t even thought he’d known her name.

His mother, the infamous Catherine Zabini, always claimed that there was no Veela blood in their family, but Astoria couldn’t think of any other reason that six exorbitantly wealthy men would marry her after what happened to the first one. That night, she could swear Blaise was some part Veela himself; his dark skin tasted like salt and sin under her tongue as she dragged him home to her flat, eyes flashing under street lamps and headlights—bewitching her, somehow (at least, that’s how she justifies it).

It turned into a fling, two or three months long. No one had graced her bed for this long since— well, it had been quite some time. What she wished she’d known that very first time is that Blaise, for all his beauty, was as perilously jealous as he was seductive. She’d always traveled to meet up with prospective clients, scout enchanted objects, or attend a variety of estate sales, and his discontent at her frequent absence from London turned into suspicion with a rapidity that was, quite frankly, alarming.

Lately, he’s taken up a habit of going through her things when he thinks she’s sleeping, or downstairs brewing tea, or in the loo. What he thinks he’s going to find, she can’t even begin to fathom. She’s much too careful for that; if she can successfully evade the entirety of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, she can handle one silly man. Still, it hadn’t exactly endeared him to her.

Astoria yanks a comb through her hair, flinging water onto the mirror and cursing under her breath. Late, always late. _Daphne’s not going to be happy_ , she thinks.

When she’s satisfied with her reflection, she steps out again to Blaise lounging naked on her white silk sheets. He’s got a condom between his teeth, eyebrows raised, ankles crossed. She pointedly ignores him, grabbing her cloak and storming downstairs.

“Darling!” he calls after her, pulling on trousers and tripping over himself, following in her wake like a puppy dog. “My darling, my angel, my cherub!” As she pours her coffee, he catches her around the middle and kisses on her neck. “You aren’t angry with me, are you, Astoria?”

A splash of coffee escapes her mug as he embraces her from behind, staining the rug on her kitchen floor. The dark stain blossoming on the cream-colored shag carpet fills her with an ire she can feel in her fingertips. They burn with the effort it takes not to cast the _Stupify_ waiting on the tip of her tongue.

She twists free. “Blaise. Get out of my flat.”

“Astoria—” That shit-eating grin comes back.

Her mother’s voice rings in her ears. _That temper, dear. I don't know where you get it from._ How that hag still manages to linger around in her subconscious, she’ll never know, but today it pushes her over the edge. “Blaise,” she warns again, voice rising, “If you don’t get out of my flat in the next five seconds, I will Conjure up a pair of pruning shears and start with your balls.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Astoria, I wasn’t even going through your—”

“Five.”

“Baby, what has gotten into you—”

“Four.”

“Astoria, don’t be like this—”

“Three.” She holds her hand palm up and sparks jump between her fingers.

“I fucking hate it when you do wandless shite—”

“Two—”

Scowling, he Summons his shirt and trainers from the bedroom and Apparates with a quick _pop!_.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she clenches her fist closed. Another sore subject. Blaise is pureblood too, and shares her parents’ disapproval of her casting wandlessly. He would shit himself if he knew what else she could do, she thinks smugly.

-

Forty minutes later, Astoria hurries down Diagon Alley in the watery light of the morning, clutching a box of raspberry danishes. The queue at Madam Puddifoot’s was particularly long, but Daphne would never forgive her for coming in late _and_ empty-handed.

“Candie’s Curiosities” is a dusty, cluttered little charms shop, tucked away in a nook of Diagon Alley. She’s fond of the old place, even if the rent is steeper than it has any right to be: she’d hardly break even every month if the store was anything more than an innocuous front for her other endeavors.

Daphne’s polishing a set of silverware behind the counter when Astoria comes in through the front door; the forks all seem to be trying to escape. “You’re late!” she chides. “Second time this week! Honestly, what has gotten into you?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Astoria says, dropping the box of danishes under her nose.

Her sister’s face brightens immediately. “Puddifoot’s?” She sticks her face into the box, inhaling deeply. “Queue can’t’ve been that long,” she says as she bites into a pastry, giving Astoria a once-over with her strange ochre eyes. “What happened?”

“Can’t a woman just be late,” says Astoria, angling past her towards the back of the shop.

“Not you.”

“Blaise is a prick.” She can’t bring herself to elaborate.

Daphne _hmm_ ’s sympathetically, licking raspberry preserves from slender fingers. “As excuses go, I suppose that’s not the worst.” She winks and plops a kiss on Astoria’s hair, then calls over her shoulder, “I’m sorry, love, but cheers for breakfast!” and makes her way back to the front.

Astoria shakes her head as she places a hand on the solid stone wall of the back of the shop; a heavy wooden door appears. “I’m in my office!” she says loudly, and steps through into the secret room.

Tendrils of magic swirl like steam around her as she disturbs the stillness of the air, warming her fingers and toes. She can’t explain it, but her peculiar talent for sensing delicate magic has always helped in her line of work. Her office is a tangled web of magical traces—from the envelope opener that slit the throat of Pius Thicknesse, to the goblet charmed to curse the drinker with eternal thirst—and she can’t see them, but she might as well be able to.

There’s a small, insistent tug in her gut as she sits at her desk, reminding her that she’d been in the middle of curse-breaking a hundred-year-old pipe last night when Blaise Firecalled. It’s the last of the Greengrass heirlooms with any value at all, and she’s been putting off the task of making it sellable. Unraveling old, ancestral magic always made her stomach turn. 

She gets ten minutes of quiet before Daphne pokes her head in. “Busy?”

Sighing, Astoria sets the pipe down. “I just got here.”

“I know, but Alfie owled me last night.” She waves a small, folded piece of parchment. “He was asking around like you said, he reckons Glenn Pumphrey’s keeping something dangerous in his office. Paperweight. Family antique, that kind of thing.”

“That old cow?” Astoria scoffs. “The Senedd is elected democratically, and he was a Hufflepuff. He’s hardly from a family of significance.” Welsh politics will always confound her.

Daphne shrugs. “Alfie knows one of his nephews. Been saying he’s a collector of ‘peculiar things’—says he’s got a taste for ‘funny old knick-knacks.’ Sounds like a lead to me.”

“You really think it’s something?”

She nods. “I arranged a meeting for you tomorrow morning in Cardiff. Just… take a look around, won’t you? I know how brilliant you are at that sort of thing.”

Astoria shakes her head, equal parts impressed and exasperated. “I barely wrapped up with our last client and you’re sending me to hustle the First Minister of Wales? It’s not exactly ‘under the radar,’ is it?”

“I think this is a special job, love. And my hunches are never wrong.” Daphne drops the note from Alfie on her desk and squeezes her shoulder as she turns to leave. “Trust me.”


	4. Chapter 4

The coffee from the break room is acrid, and Draco can barely stomach it. He casts a warming spell, the strongest he can muster, and takes another sip. Shudders. _Awful _.__

The Hangover Potion he took this morning barely made a difference, and every step he takes down the hallway back to his corner office jostles his unhappy stomach. His head is another beast altogether; it’s as though his heart has taken up residence inside his skull, and pounds its beat behind his eyes as enthusiastically and mercilessly as those Muggle drummers at Buckingham Palace.

Settling gingerly into his chair, and taking special care not to move his neck too much to either side, Draco rifles through the few pages from the file with “Auror Sheppard” across the top. There’s not much to go on: detailed description of a location, an anonymous tip, a chase. No specifics. It’s standard procedure to interview the Aurors at the scene, but Merlin knows he can’t handle a sit-down with Sheppard at the moment.

(Potter’s ridiculous excuse for a partner, Jackson Sheppard, is a fucking arse. Sheppard hero-worships Potter to the most excessive degree—what’s worse is that Draco knows that Harry actually enjoys it, or at least finds it amusing—which consequently means demonizing Draco to the same extreme. Of course, it doesn’t help that Draco humiliated him constantly during training all those years ago: Sheppard never was much of a dueler. Perhaps he should’ve kept that in mind when he made his snide little remarks).

 _Auror Potter_ , says the write-up in Sheppard’s messy scribbles, _was the only other witness to this event._

Starting with Potter strikes Draco as equally punishing. He’s hardly looked at the man in seven months; last night’s exchange wasn’t exactly a hopeful omen for a pleasant interaction today. Still, he can’t start the investigation without the interview, and he’s a professional, goddammit (Susan Bones is also a terrifying woman; fearing her wrath is not weakness, just good common sense).

Never one to dwell on the past, he’s been careful thus far to leave the memory of the horrible day of their break-up untouched. It was, as it always is, a multitude of things that split them up, and Draco tries not to remember as he gathers his things and makes his way down to Level 5 where Potter’s office is.

He fails.

-

It’s nearly two in the morning. Harry’s tracing figure-eights on his naked stomach with a petal-soft fingertip. The smell of sweat and sex hangs in the air, but the window’s propped open, and the drizzling, late-November rain replaces it with the scent of dirt and tar. _Much more pleasant,_ thinks Draco. Sleep tugs gently at his eyelids, but Harry has taken to nibbling at his hip bones. It tickles.

There’s just enough orange light from the street for Draco to see a crease on Harry’s brow— he’s got something on his mind, then. He presses a thumb over the little ridge, as if he could smooth it with just his touch. They haven’t spoken since their row this morning, and they’d always preferred to apologize with their bodies instead of their words; Draco certainly did, and judging by the way Harry had greeted him when he’d gotten home (hands down his trousers, teeth on his neck), he didn’t mind at all. Talking had never really been their style, anyways.

But every thought that man has ends up plastered all over his face, and tonight, it seems, the gears are turning, and hard. The little trench above his eyebrow gets deeper every second Draco doesn’t ask about it. As much as he wants to ignore him and drift off (he’s got three meetings tomorrow! Three!), his tongue betrays him.

“Something wrong?” he asks. Harry continues to mouth on his pelvis, stubbly chin scraping over Draco’s sensitive skin. “Harry,” he reprimands, pushing his forehead away without any real conviction.

Harry props up onto his elbows suddenly, much more awake than Draco feels. “It’s nearly December.”

“Yes.”

“And your father’s out in a week.”

It’s true, Lucius’ fourteen-year sentence in Azkaban would be up in a week. Not that Draco gives any particular fucks. He adjusts the pillow under his neck. “Yes,” he repeats, and he tries for nonchalant, but his tone is noticeably icier than before.

“Maybe… well, I was thinking that maybe we could go to the Manor for Christmas this year.” Harry is still, his eyes appraising.

Draco sits up a little, squinting through the dark at his face—there’s no amusement there, no indication that the statement just made wasn’t perfectly sincere. He flops back down. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. I want to sleep, Harry.”

He wraps an arm over Draco’s torso, nosing into his throat. “I’m being serious. Last year was hard for us, and I think it would be a great chance to try again, y’know, with your family this time.”

“It wasn’t my fault Molly ignored me the whole time, and Ginevra _hexed_ me under the dinner table. I was a perfect saint. Anyways, it was your idea.” They’ve had this argument so many times it’s probably a moot point by now, but that doesn’t mean he wants to rehash it again. “And I don’t think I’ll even dignify that last part with an answer.”

“It would be a really nice opportunity to see your mum, and you know she’d be over the moon about having you there for his first Christmas home. It’s been ages since you’ve all been together.”

“Since when were you bosom friends with my mother?” Draco says, only half-jokingly. Tries to ignore how the casual mention of his father makes his heart jump into his throat.

“Well, I was talking to Narcissa last weekend—”

“Excuse me?” Draco doesn’t need to see his face (which he’s strategically hiding under Draco’s chin) to know that Harry’s eyebrows are furrowed up against one another, tongue between his teeth, like he does when he knows he’s been caught.

“I just went for tea last weekend when you were out. She told me about Lucius, and I didn’t know exactly when he was getting released, so I asked. We thought it might be nice—”

“It’s ‘we,’ now, is it?” he asks incredulously. “Why are you pushing this, Harry? You know how I feel about my father, and I don’t need you conspiring against me with my mother, Merlin knows she can do that without your help.” And Harry should know not to press too hard on this particular bruise of his. He says a silent prayer, hoping Harry will hear it and just let him go to sleep.

He doesn’t. “I just thought we could go for Christmas, that’s all. You haven’t spoken to him in years, maybe it’ll be different.” Lower, he adds, “You’re lucky, you know. If I had a chance like this…”

 _Lucky?_ Draco can’t help but grind his teeth together, trying to tamp down the rising irritation in his chest. There’d always been this unspoken agreement between them when they’d first taken up together: let sleeping dogs lie. His horrid relationship with his father went along with the parts of himself that he’d packed away into neat little boxes—along with the gruesome scars on his left forearm and a guilt he never learned how to shoulder—put away on the highest shelf of his memory and left to collect dust; Harry was sending them tumbling to the floor, bursting open anew. “If you think he’ll let the Boy Who Lived into his ancestral home to share a Christmas cracker, you’re terribly mistaken, and more importantly, I’ve already told you, I’m done with him.”

Harry sits up immediately and glares down at him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t tell me how to feel about my father.” Draco sits up too, and feels a little like a petulant child. “I’m not seventeen anymore. I’ve put all that behind me.”

“You can’t run from who you are, Draco.”

Draco feels as if he’s fallen flat on his back, all the wind punched out of his lungs. All his old fears come racing back in, water bursting through the carefully constructed dam they’d built together. Turns out, it’s a lot more fragile than he’d like to pretend. With shaking fingers, he reaches for the lamp on the bedside table. “What did you just say to me?”

The light clicks on, and there’s no sign of tenderness or remorse on Harry’s face. “I’m just saying, every time I tried to escape who I was, it ended up shit. You have to confront it.”

“You’re doing this right now? Comparing us?”

Harry’s reached across him and shoved on his glasses. “It’s just a part of you that you can’t get rid of. It’s always going to be there, and it’s going to hurt you more if you keep on pretending you can outrun it. I know it’s still hurting you, it’s why you’re—y’know.”

“Stop—just stop.” His jaw works hard, trying to catch up to the dizzying amount of things Draco wants to say. He should’ve expected this—and yet, these little betrayals sting behind his eyes. “How can you say that?”

He’s dragging the comforter around his shoulders, and it reminds Draco of a crab retreating into its shell, which irks him. Carelessly, Harry replies, “It was just an idea, Draco. We don’t have to do anything for Christmas.” Refusing to meet his dubious stare, he tugs the edge of the blanket tighter around his body. It slides off of Draco’s calves, and the clear night air seeping in from the open window feels a little colder. “I think if you just fix this one thing, repair this one bridge, you’ll be so much happier, and that’s what I want for you. I know how important he is to you—”

Draco cuts him off with a shaky gesture; he can’t listen to this anymore. “Please don’t say anything else.”

The caressing hand that comes down on his ankle is unwelcome; he jerks his leg away. What’s worse is that look of confusion spreading slowly over Harry’s face, like Draco is a particularly vexing algebra equation. Something else for him to solve.

He needs to get away, so he climbs out of bed, pulls on crumpled trousers with as much dignity as he can, and flees to the washroom. Thankfully, Harry doesn’t immediately follow, and he has time to wash his face with icy water, trying to calm the bright flush that’s risen high in his cheeks. After scrubbing a towel over his face, he examines himself in the mirror. Grips the edge of the sink on both sides, knuckles white, and remembers how that same flush so often colored his mother’s face growing up. Only now does he recognize it: anger, stifled.

“Are you upset?” Harry is there, standing suddenly in the doorway, white comforter draped around his shoulders like a child—green eyes innocent, confused, and so _infuriatingly_ oblivious behind those ridiculous specs he’s had since school.

It’s not endearing anymore. Draco can remember a time when he’d laugh fondly at Harry’s mindlessness, kiss the side of that thick head of his, and love him for it. Now it only fans the flame. “What do you think?”

Harry frowns. “I just wanted to help! I know how hard it is to try and reconnect with a family member that’s really far gone, my cousin and I—”

“I don’t want to hear any more stories about your idiotic Muggle cousin, Harry. It’s not the same; your father is dead, so don’t tell me how I should feel about mine.”

Stiffening, his voice climbs a little higher. “Don’t talk about my father, Draco. I was just suggesting—”

“Jesus, just leave it alone! You and your fucking saviour complex—”

“My _what?_ ”

Draco can’t stomach this anymore; it’s all coming out now. “You feel guilty, don’t you? You couldn’t save everyone. Your parents, your godfather—all those people in the War. And now you feel like you have to save me, and I have news for you: I’m not this broken thing you need to put back together! Can you for once mind your own goddamn business and keep your nose out of my pathetic life?”

It’s too cruel. If there’s one thing they know, it’s fighting—and Harry never pulls his punches. “Sorry, but you signed up for that when you came down from your ivory tower to fuck me—and if I recall correctly, you didn’t seem to have a problem with my so-called ‘saviour complex’ when I pulled you out of that Fiendfyre! You were _desperate_ for me to save you then, or can’t you remember?”

Suddenly he’s seventeen again. It’s ironic, really, how Harry has always had this sort of power to wield over him, this power to save and damn him with every decision. Phantom smoke fills his lungs, but before he can catch his breath, or regain any semblance of control over his body, his lungs muster up a jagged, guttural sound—Draco thinks it may be laughter—catching them both by surprise. He glimpses his reflection as he straightens from over the sink; a wild thing jeers back at him, but its eyes are scared and hunted.

“You didn’t do that for me. I know you, Harry.” Thirteen years of resentment, thirteen years of abuse, trauma, penance: it all bleeds out of him, pulses in streams with the pounding of his heart from an untended wound. He must look utterly terrifying, because Harry—unshakeable, immovable Harry—takes a few steps back. Draco imagines he looks a little like his father, and he hates it. Uses it, channels all the vitriol, all the loathing. Takes no prisoners.

“Your guilt is _bottomless_. It swallows you whole. It haunts you at night, and you eagerly cast me into hell to try and appease something that you could _never_ hope to outrun.” Every word vibrates through his bones, and although it’s malicious and unkind and inhuman, nothing has ever felt truer. Harry damned him to live this cursed life, ever indebted: the helpless, misguided boy who was saved, the boy who repented because the Saviour extended a gracious, forgiving hand.

“I would rather go back to that day and die a million times over than go through what I’ve been through again. I have spent my entire life paying for your selfishness, trying to undo what you did that day. And I will never, ever, forgive you.”

What Harry says next will be branded into Draco’s memory for the rest of his life. “Maybe you _should’ve_ died, Malfoy, if you hate me so fucking much!”

Draco’s not a child; he knows that Harry’s only worked up, that he doesn’t truly regret saving Draco all those years ago—it’s the return to his surname that breaks him. He Apparates out of Harry’s flat to anywhere, anywhere in the world, and it’s only after his knees give out and crack down onto concrete that he feels the tears hot on his face.

-

“Level Five! Department of Magical Law Enforcement! Please get OUT!” screeches the shrill voice of the lift. He jumps, and it breaks him from the trance he’s in.

The doors open and Robards, waiting to get on, looks up from over his glasses. “Alright, son? You’re white as a sheet.”

Swallowing hard, he grips his case and forces a smile. “Yes, sir.”

Draco takes his time navigating the hallways of the Aurors' offices; he wills his feet to carry him to the last door of the left corridor, where that dreaded golden plaque makes his stomach sink to the floor. “Auror Potter.”

Steeling his nerves, he lifts his knuckles to the door, but pauses, listening intently. He hears familiar music playing—one of the old Muggle bands Harry used to play for him, on his strange contraption with the hypnotizing, spinning plate inside that little box. For a moment, he leans his forehead on the door, letting the melody wash over him.

Takes a deep breath.

Knocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! real nervous about posting this one. hopefully everything makes sense so far! if you've read all this, i love you! i know reading a drarry breakup is torture (they always make me cry), but i promise, there's fluff and heists coming soon!


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